


Ice Bride

by LadyWynne



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWynne/pseuds/LadyWynne
Summary: The Night King requires a bride.





	Ice Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I had an idea and this little drama-bomb was born. It is completely show canon, post-season 7, except the Wall is intact and dragons never come north. Semi-impressionistic. I had a lot of fun writing this.

 

I

When Sandor and Sansa are reunited they waste little time affirming their mutual love. They are connected. Even through the years of separation each was always thinking of the other.

The moon’s turn spent in Winterfell is the most blessed of their lives. Sansa learns what it is to be with a man who cherishes and respects her. Sandor learns that love sees beyond all manner of scars.

Too soon Jon marches, and Sandor with him.

The Other is like the eye of a storm at sea, motionless in the swirl of chaos, simultaneously a part of it, the very source of it, yet apart and unaffected. Sandor’s ferocity propels him toward the creature until the Other meets his eyes. It is like staring into flame, the blue is a searing force seeming to freeze him where he stands. In that suspended moment, unbelievably, the Other speaks. Its voice is otherworldly and sharp as ice cracking. The tongue is so foreign Sandor can barely understand the words.

“My King requires a bride. A Stark kissed by fire. Or all perish.” The creature sits frozen astride its grisly mount, shimmering through the swirling gloom.

 _No. He can’t mean..._ When the Other turns its horse, Sandor’s rage is renewed. Unthinking he charges, sword raised. The Other parries so swiftly its blade is a mere blur. When dragon glass meets crystal Sandor’s sword shatters, the glittering black shards arcing through the air. He can feel the razor-sharp pieces slicing into the skin of his face, and he roars out his fury. The Other, unperturbed, stops its cold edge against Sandor’s neck. The scarred man doesn’t flinch, glaring in hatred at his foe.

“A bride,” the Other repeats before lifting its sword away.

As it leaves, the snow settles into soft lazy flakes.

Sandor watches it go with a clenched jaw, the hilt of his broken sword still in his hand.

*****

Sandor paces and fumes in Jon’s solar.

“Fuck!” He finally rounds on the King in the North. “He’ll not have her!” The very idea chills him in a way he can’t explain, and his anger belies the cold coil in his gut.

Jon frowns back at him, “Of course not!”

“We cannot let their demand be known. If it gets bad the cowards out there will give her up.” Suddenly Sandor leans closer, inches from Jon’s face, growling, “You can’t tell her either.” _If she can save even one green boy she’ll do it._

Jon doesn’t give an inch, pronouncing each syllable with deliberate control, “It stays here.”

Sandor holds the boy’s gaze for a moment longer and then straightens with a slight nod. Suddenly shaky, he pours himself wine and downs it in a gulp. Then he pours another.

*****

The dark, cold battle rages on. The dead never sleep. They throw themselves forward relentlessly, fearlessly, endlessly. Sandor’s existence narrows to swirling fire and snow. He loses all track of time in his exhaustion. Yet he fights on, distinguishing himself a thousand times in feats of strength and bravery. It is in one such moment that he hears it. Quiet. The roar in his ears hasn’t lessened in so long that the lack of it is dizzying. The howling wind stills, and though it is yet night and the moans of the wounded can faintly be heard, the Wall becomes eerily silent. Sandor peers through the iron bars of the gate, and watches every enemy withdraw to the Haunted Forest.

 _Seven bloody hells._ Sandor’s heart is pierced with awful certainty. He whirls and rushes through the tunnel back to Castle Black, emerging under the first stars anyone has seen in half a year. There Sandor beholds his worst nightmare. _Sansa. No._ She is mounted on a snow-white mare, so fiercely beautiful he almost falls to his knees. She turns to him, her eyes filled with sorrow and resolve. The Lady of Winterfell has come to save them all.

*****

Sansa dismounts and rushes into his arms, and the feel of him enclosing her in his strength is all she needs in the world. She speaks against his ear. “Bran told me all. The Night King has the Horn of Winter. It is the only way.”

“No!” he rasps urgently. “We’ll find something else.”

Sansa lays tender kisses over his bearded cheek and shakes her head against him.

“I love you, Sandor. I love you so much.”

In the end they have to bind him. Even tied with thick rope it takes four men to restrain him. His feet churn uselessly for purchase against the snow as he struggles and bellows, curses and cries, fights to reach her.

Sansa can hear Sandor screaming for her, and though the sound breaks her heart she continues on. _I must be brave._ She is escorted by the last direwolves of Stark, Ghost and Nymeria. She is dressed head-to-toe in wolf pelts, and she would seem one of the pack if not for her fiery hair. It is long and loose and blows beside her like a banner. The way forward is lined with torches on either side, the orange flicker reflected in her hair. 

The Watch has honored her with a new call. The horn will sound four times for the Ice Bride. As she reaches the edge of the torchlight she pauses to listen. The great direwolves add their mournful howls. When Sansa moves past the light her pack does not follow.

*****

When it is over the black brothers release him and Sandor drops to his knees. Jon Snow cuts him free himself. The King in the North puts his hand on Sandor’s shoulder, but does not say a word.

 

II

Sansa’s sacrifice brings the Dawn. The White Walkers sleep again, or so it is whispered. Many songs are sung of her courage and beauty, but no whispers or songs are heard at Winterfell for Sandor cannot bear them. He stays for the wolf-girl’s sake, he goes on living only for Arya. He guards her, but he knows she is taking care of him more than he her.

When the first of her children are born Arya calls him into her chambers. They are alone, and she pats her bed for him to sit. Arya doesn’t ask before passing the babe into his arms. He looks down at a child with wisps of brown hair, and beautiful blue eyes. Not Baratheon blue. They are Sansa’s eyes, the blue of an autumn sky.

“It’s a girl,” Arya says in her matter-of-fact way. Then more softly, “I’ve named her Sansa.”

Sandor Clegane, formerly the Hound, feels tears prick his eyes.

Arya watches him carefully and leans forward so he sees her face. “Another Stark girl who needs a Hound by her side.”

“Aye.” He doesn’t bother to deny his devotion.

He is lost to her already.

Little Sansa grows up calling him Uncle Sandor.


End file.
